


Pressure Point

by AeroplanesR0ck



Series: Hold and Release [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF John, Blackmail, Emotional Manipulation, Forced Orgasm, His Last Vow Spoilers, M/M, Misunderstandings, Trans Character, Trans Sherlock, Virgin Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-28
Updated: 2017-02-11
Packaged: 2018-09-02 20:16:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 21
Words: 11,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8681941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AeroplanesR0ck/pseuds/AeroplanesR0ck
Summary: Sherlock will do anything to keep John happy. In this case, that means keeping Mary's secret. Magnussen knows this, and he intends to take full advantage. 
Canon divergence from the middle of His Last Vow. Spoilers for everything up to that point, naturally. Based on this deleted scene. 
This fic is a fill for this prompt on Dreamwidth.





	1. What Mary Said

**Author's Note:**

> Soo...yes, I have realised the similarities between the prompt and the general plot of In Safe Hands- Sherlock is having sex with someone he really shouldn't be having sex with, John swoops in to save the day. I'll do my best to make them two very different fics. Come to think of it, the Johnstrade fic is a bit like that at first too- if you replace Sherlock with John and John with Lestrade. But if you've read them both, you'll know that they go in totally different directions in terms of plot and tone! So I'll try to do the same here. Enjoy!

The hospital at three in the morning was almost completely silent. What little sound there was filtered sluggishly through Sherlock’s morphine-slow brain- the tapping of the night nurse at the keyboard, footsteps passing up and down the corridor. Sherlock lay awake, staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep, turning over in his head his most recent interaction with the woman known as Mary Morstan. 

 

_John had been with him for hours, sitting with him, chatting to Sherlock as Sherlock watched, unable to respond, to laugh or smile or speak. Unfazed by this, John, wonderful John, had continued to talk, filling the deathly hospital silence with his voice. Now, though, he was gone. He’d gone down to the canteen to get himself a drink, leaving his wife in charge of watching over Sherlock. His wife, who’d shot Sherlock mere hours ago. His wife, who was now alone with a helpless Sherlock. She could do anything, and he’d be too drugged up to resist._

_She came up close, her face looming large above his. The smell of Claire-de-la-lune filled his nostrils. “Sherlock.” She whispered. He gazed up at her, her face coming in and out of focus as adrenaline fought against morphine. “You don’t tell John.” She told him. “Whatever happens, you don’t tell John.” With enormous effort, Sherlock managed to wriggle his eyebrows, a silent expression of ‘Why shouldn’t I?’._

_She sighed, sitting down in a chair next to Sherlock. “Because John is a good man. And I am not a good woman. I am not the woman he deserves. But he is also a deeply loyal man. He made his vows, and he will keep them. Even if you tell him, he will. And that is why you shouldn’t. Now, he is happy. With me, with our life. Do you really want to rip that away? It won’t bring him back to you. You’ll only hurt him. You understand, don’t you? We’re the same in that way. We hide the dark parts of ourselves because John deserves only the best.”_

_Sherlock watched her silently. She stood, shouldering her purse. “You love him just as much as I do. I know you’ll make the right choice.”_

_Right on cue, John came back into the room, carrying a cardboard cup of coffee in one hand. Mary turned, smiling brightly at John. “John, you’re back!” She said cheerfully. “I don’t know how you do this, it’s like talking to a corpse. Well, I’ve got to get home. I’ll see you tonight, yes?”_

_“Mm, see you tonight.” John agreed. Though Sherlock’s eyes were closed, he could still hear the soft smack of John’s lips against Mary’s cheek._

_The door gave a soft click as the latch caught, and Sherlock opened his eyes, breathing out a slow sigh of relief when he saw that he was once more alone with John. John sat down in the seat, and began to talk, telling Sherlock a funny story he’d overheard while lining up for his coffee. Sherlock watched John, relieved and comforted by his presence. He saved the thoughts of what he was going to do for later._


	2. Magnussen's Visit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Magnussen comes to see Sherlock. He, too, has got some things to say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A funny thing I noticed, when I was editing this chapter...I tend to forget to capitalise Mary's name, whereas I keep accidentally typing 'John' like this: JOhn. Hmm...wonder what that says about me.

It was later, now. John had gone home when visiting hours ended, hours ago now, and Sherlock was left alone with the silence, and his thoughts. He was tugged out of his reverie, though, when the door clicked open. He looked over, expecting to see the night nurse come to check on him. 

 

Charles Augustus Magnussen regarded him for a moment, pausing in the doorway before coming in. “I know, it’s awfully late.” He murmured. “I just thought I ought to pop by, seeing as I’m part of the reason you’re in here.”

 

Sherlock wondered if he meant that in the sense that Sherlock wouldn’t have been shot if he hadn’t been investigating Magnussen, or in the sense that, as he was the one who’d called an ambulance, he’d played a hand in ensuring that Sherlock was here in hospital, rather than downstairs in the morgue. 

 

Magnussen sat down in the chair, one hand resting atop Sherlock’s. The other hand ran up Sherlock’s forearm, making Sherlock’s skin crawl as he lay, unresponsive, unable to jerk away, to call out, just as trapped as all of Magnussen’s other victims. Sherlock was bound by the drugs coursing through his veins- the rest were bound by the secrets Magnussen held over them. Soon, Magnussen would have Sherlock bound up as tight as all the rest, drugs or no- trussed up in a web of his own making, the silk threads made of Sherlock’s foolish love for the unattainable Doctor Watson. 

 

“Oh, I do covet your hands, Mr. Holmes. Since you’ve survived, though, I suppose you get to keep them.” He picked up Sherlock’s hand, fingertips tracing along Sherlock’s long, elegant fingers. “Look at them.” He murmured. He removed the pulse oximeter, replacing it on his own finger. That would throw off the nurses. Though his pulse was higher than Sherlock’s own resting heart rate, it was far less of a red flag than the way Sherlock’s pulse would be skyrocketing in a few moments. “The musician’s hands,” he continued, “an artist’s.” He bent his head, pressing an open mouthed kiss to the back of Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock’s stomach twisted at the sensation of hot breath against his skin. Magnussen glanced up at Sherlock with a knowing gaze. “Or a woman’s?” He suggested.

 

With great effort, Sherlock twitched his hand out of Magnussen’s grasp, allowing it to fall back onto the bed. He felt tainted, almost, the sensation of Magnussen’s touch, his kiss, lingering on Sherlock’s skin. Impotent anger burned through him. He was no woman. It didn’t matter what Magnussen said, what he knew. 

 

Magnussen sat back in his chair, rubbing his hands together. “Apologies for the dampness of my touch. You’ll get used to it.” 

 

Sherlock shuddered inwardly at the implication, as Magnussen continued to talk. “I happened to overhear your little conversation with the woman you know as Mary Watson, yesterday.”

 

Sherlock eyed Magnussen, wondering how he knew, if he’d bugged the room. Though he knew, logically, that what Mary said was most crucial in this game of cat and mouse, he found that he felt most upset by the thought of Magnussen listening in on his time with John. That had been meant for them only, a little bubble where they could be together, after so long spent apart. It had been like a special treat, having the whole of John’s attention, and he hated to know that he’d had to share that with Magnussen. 

 

“She’s right, you know.” Once again, Magnussen’s voice interrupted Sherlock’s thoughts. “He’ll forgive her, even if you tell. He forgave you, after all, and you killed yourself for two years. She only killed you for a few minutes. And he does love her so.”

 

Magnussen stood, straightening his jacket. He bent low over him, cupping Sherlock’s cheek in his large hand, thumb stroking over one prominent cheekbone. His breath huffed across Sherlock’s face as he spoke. “When you’re as naughty as our dear Mary Watson, domestic bliss comes with a price. But if you like, Doctor Watson doesn’t have to be the one to pay it.”

 

He patted Sherlock’s cheek, straightening up. “I’ll be in touch, Mr. Holmes.” Then he turned and left, leaving Sherlock with his churning thoughts.


	3. Calm Before the Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Magnussen comes to call.

Weeks pass without word from Magnussen. Sherlock heals, slowly. He escapes from hospital as soon as they will let him- he prefers the pain to the experience of being drugged, helpless, and almost naked while people bustle around and fuss over him. He doesn’t escape the being fussed over quite as much as he’d hoped, as once he goes back to Baker Street, Mrs Hudson is nearly always in the flat, bringing him unsolicited biscuits and tea and blankets. Even John keeps coming over, sometimes alone, and sometimes with Mary, who shoots him warning looks when John isn’t looking. 

 

Sherlock isn’t stupid enough to think that Magnussen has forgotten. He isn’t sure what Magnussen’s game is, whether it’s to let him stew in anxiety, or to lull him into a false sense of security, but he knows that, in time, he would be back to collect on his promise. All Sherlock had to do, all he could do, was wait. He’d tried to think of something else he could offer, something better that might save him from giving Magnussen what he wanted. The best he could think of was Mycroft’s laptop, with all the power and secrets that came with it. He was halfway through hatching a convoluted plan before he realised he actually had no intention of carrying it out. Maybe, a couple of years ago, he might have. In the intervening time, though, his relationship with Mycroft had changed in some subtle way. They fought and bickered as much as ever, but he wouldn’t ruin his brother’s career just to get himself out of an uncomfortable encounter- not even a potentially endless series of unpleasant encounters. 

 

While he heals, Lestrade refuses to let him in on cases, appeasing him with cold case files. He even enlists Molly’s help to get him interesting things to study. He turns up a couple of times a week, bearing a cooler box of some body part or other, several cold case files, and takeaway for the both of them. It becomes a nice sort of routine, picking over the Met’s stupid mistakes and enumerating them to Lestrade in between bites of garlic fried rice.

 

Still, Sherlock is ecstatic when he gets called out on a case, even though it turns out to be boring- run-of-the-mill jealous husband, trying to disguise his crime as a ritualistic murder. John was too busy to come along, which put something of a dampener on Sherlock’s mood, but still, he’s in high spirits when he gets home. That is, until he gets home and finds a very unpleasant surprise sitting on the sofa.

 

“Good evening, Mr. Holmes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why is this in present tense, you ask? Well, it just...came out like that. And felt better like that. And I tried to change it to past tense like the rest of this fic and it just read completely wrong, so I left it. Um, apologies. I have no control over myself or my life or my writing. *author breaks down in tears*


	4. Your Touch, It Burns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Magnussen takes creepy to the next level. Sherlock is not having fun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is...fairly intense. Trigger warnings everywhere.

Sherlock froze in the motion of hanging up his coat, staring at Magnussen. He felt a sudden urge to put his coat back, but he knew it was useless. Magnussen wanted his vulnerability, and he would get it. 

 

Magnussen stalked towards him, wearing a smile that would be considered comforting on anyone else. To Sherlock, it only looked menacing. “I hope you are healing well?” He asked. “I hope you do not mind if I take a look. To reassure myself, you understand.” 

 

He deftly unbuttoned Sherlock’s shirt, running his fingers over the puckered divot on Sherlock’s torso with a look of intense interest. Sherlock stayed still, watching Magnussen with a strange sort of calm. He felt a distance to the situation, like he was watching it on a screen, or like he was underwater, everything muffled and slowed down. Magnussen picked up one of his hands, and it lay limply in his grasp, no longer a part of Sherlock’s body, just a puppet hand with no one but Magnussen around to control it. Magnussen unbuttoned his cuff, then lifted Sherlock’s hand to his mouth, kissing the palm, the sound of it soft yet audible in the screaming silence of the room. The sensation of Magnussen’s rough beard against Sherlock’s sensitive fingertips jerked Sherlock back to reality, and he shuddered, jerking his hand away. Suddenly everything became immediate, and real. He shut his eyes tight, trying to find his way back to that sheltered underwater place, but the sound of Magnussen’s quiet chuckle was loud in his ears, his breath hot against Sherlock’s face. 

 

Magnussen gave the same treatment to the other hand, and then slid Sherlock’s shirt off his shoulders. Sherlock heard the whisper of cotton hitting the floor, felt it land at his heels. He tried to focus on that, but was drawn back to his situation by Magnussen running the flat of his hand up Sherlock’s bare back. “So many scars you have acquired over your life.” Magnussen mused. His fingers traced the raised lines on Sherlock’s back, but his eyes were on the thinner, older, much less noticeable scars that ran across his chest. “Still, you are a very beautiful man.”

 

He grasped Sherlock’s chin, gently tilting his face up, and leaned down to kiss him. Unconsciously, Sherlock let out a soft sound of distress. Everything about this was wrong, the way Magnussen’s facial hair rubbed against his skin, the way his huge hands cradled Sherlock’s head, trapping him there with an awful gentleness. Sherlock would have preferred if he’d been rough, if he’d pinned Sherlock down and taken what he wanted. This way, there was no escaping the knowledge that he chose this, that he’d been given an option and this was the path he’d decided to take, that he continued to choose, every second that he failed to fight back. Like this, he was entirely complicit in this situation, and he had no one but himself to blame. 

 

Magnussen licked his way into Sherlock’s mouth, and Sherlock shuddered in his hold. He’d done this before, for a case, but somehow this was different, worse. It felt unbearable intimate, having someone else’s tongue in his mouth, saliva mingling with his own, sliding down his throat, being absorbed by his digestive system into his very cells. Just barely, he stopped himself from biting down. 

 

Magnussen leaned back, their lips parting with a soft, slick sound. Arms tightened around him, and then the ground shifted and disappeared from beneath Sherlock’s feet. Sherlock jerked in surprise, instinctively grabbing on to Magnussen’s shoulders. Sherlock wanted to protest, to say that he could walk perfectly fine, thank you very much, but the words wouldn’t come, his mouth refused to open. Magnussen began to walk down the hall, towards Sherlock’s bedroom, and Sherlock shut his eyes, biting down hard on his lip to hold in a whimper.


	5. So Lay Back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Magnussen continues to be creepy. Sherlock is still not having fun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A continuation of the last chapter, so you know what that means.

Sherlock felt himself being set down on the bed before Magnussen backed away a few steps, followed by the sound of magnussen’s clothes hitting the floor. Not liking the feeling of passively lying on his back on the bed, he sat up, opening his eyes. The sight of the man before him sent a shock running through him. He’d seen naked men before. He’d even seen naked men with erections before, even if most of them were dead at the time. This was different. He’d never thought of an erect cock as being aggressive before, but that was exactly what it was. It stuck straight out at him, bobbing slightly in a demanding way. Sherlock bit his lip, forcing the ridiculous thought away. This situation was difficult enough without him anthropomorphising body parts, of all things. 

 

Magnussen noticed him staring, and chuckled softly. “You can have a closer look, if you like.” He cupped the back of Sherlock’s head, guiding him until the cock was inches from his face. “Go on, then. Say hello.”

 

It wasn’t a verbal ‘hello’ that Magnussen wanted. Sherlock didn’t bother prevaricating. He leaned in, giving the head a tentative lick. It tasted- neutral, somewhat bitter, but ultimately the taste was easy to ignore. Sherlock hesitated, unsure what he was doing. He’d seen this act in pornography, of course, he knew how it went. He was less sure of what to do when he was with someone he wasn’t particularly interested in pleasuring. The hand on his head nudged him slightly when he paused for too long, and he continued, licking a few more times before putting his mouth around it. It filled his mouth uncomfortably, poking at the back of his throat, and making him gag. 

 

Magnussen stroked his hair. “Slowly, slowly. Take your time.” He murmured. “We’ve got all night.”

 

Sherlock didn’t even want to think about spending the whole night with this man. He hoped he didn’t plan on staying over. There would be no way he’d get any sleep with Magnussen in his bed. Possibly because he’d kill him in his sleep. Sherlock lost himself in the fantasy, allowing his body to continue on autopilot. 

 

After a while, Magnussen stepped back. Sherlock went cold, knowing what came next. Magnussen’s hand was on his chest, steadily pushing him back until he was lying on the bed, long fingers unbuttoning his trousers. They dipped beneath the placket of his trousers, curling around his cock and pulling it out. Magnussen turned the packer over in his hand, squeezing it. 

 

“Quite a realistic feeling.” He mused. He lifted it to his face, inhaling, soaking in Sherlock’s smell that lingered on the silicon. He set it on Sherlock’s bedside table, and his hands returned to Sherlock’s pants, fingers sliding over his labia. 

 

“Seems like you need a little help getting in the mood.” Magnussen said, fingers hooking in Sherlock’s belt loops and tugging his pants off his hips.


	6. Anything For You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's in hell. Magnussen thinks this is funny.

Sherlock flushed as his pants and trousers were tugged off his ankles, leaving him naked in the cool air of the room. He regarded Magnussen nervously from his half-sitting position, uncomfortably aware of how he looked, even as he consciously told himself that he shouldn’t care. What did it matter how he looked? There was only Magnussen to see, and Sherlock cared nothing for what he thought. Except, Sherlock knew what he looked like. He chose his clothing carefully, to make himself taller, broader, more masculine- to protect his weakness and vulnerability from the rest of the world. No one had seen him completely naked since he was a child, not even John- no one until now. 

 

“Lovely.” Magnussen murmured, and Sherlock turned his face away. Magnussen’s eyes on him were like a physical touch, making Sherlock’s skin crawl. 

 

“Hurry up. Get it over with.” He muttered, the first words he’d spoken since seeing Magnussen in the flat. Sherlock could hardly believe that had been less than an hour ago. He felt like he’d been trapped here for an eternity. 

 

“Get it over with?” Magnussen questioned. “You speak as if this is some chore, Mr. Holmes.” He paused, and then chuckled. “Well, for you, perhaps it is. But as for me-” He leaned in to kiss Sherlock’s lips, slow and lingering. “I am having a lovely time, and I intend to savour you.”

 

He trailed damp kisses down Sherlock’s chest and stomach, pushing Sherlock’s thighs apart with his hands. At the first brush of rough beard against his inner thighs, Sherlock shuddered, a strangled, desperate noise escaping his lips. He screwed his eyes shut tight, heart pounding out of his chest with fear as lips descended on him, a gentle pressure against his most intimate, untouched parts. Magnussen’s tongue flicked out, testing, and Sherlock jerked, breath coming in ragged, terrified gasps as the reality of his situation suddenly hit him with all the force of a sledgehammer. He was being raped, he thought hysterically, realising that this was the first time he was letting himself use the word. Magnussen was raping him, plain and simple, and he was allowing it. He tried to remind himself of why he as doing it- but as soon as John’s face swam into his mind’s view, he pushed it forcefully away. He didn’t want to think of John now. It felt as though if Sherlock thought of him, it would taint him somehow, and Sherlock was doing this to protect John, to make sure that none of this ever came near him. John deserved that. Sherlock had hurt John deeply, it hadn’t taken him long after coming back to realise that. John- strong John, he’d recovered himself, he’d found happiness and a wife, he’d forgiven Sherlock in spite of everything. Still, Sherlock still saw the sadness and hurt in John’s eyes, saw the careful blankness in John’s expression sometimes when John looked at him. Sherlock had done that to John, John who used to laugh freely with Sherlock, who used to look at him with nothing but admiration and friendship, who was replaced now by a man with a dark shadow in his eyes, who never looked Sherlock full in the face for more than a second at a time without that hurt seeping into his gaze. Sherlock had been a positive part of John’s life, once, but he’d dropped himself into the negative when he fell, and possibly made it even worse by coming back. As much as John tried to include Sherlock, to make him feel like nothing had changed, Sherlock saw. He knew they’d never return to the uncomplicated friendship they’d had, that there would always be this darkness hanging between them. That was Sherlock’s fault, and now all he could do was lie back and allow the most horrifying man he’d ever met have his way with him, because the alternative, the possibility that he might allow John to be hurt yet again- that would be worse than anything that Magnussen could think to do to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gosh, you guys, I am so tired. Tell me if this makes sense. I am...an emotional wreck I cried writing this idk idk someone save me from myself. End of term is the worst.


	7. Freefalling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock comes. Magnussen comes. Both experiences are terrible, for Sherlock at any rate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, trigger warning. I'd say this is the worst of the last few chapters, so, y'know...be warned.

Sherlock stuffed his wrist into his mouth to stifle a sob, silent tears rolling down his cheeks. He sucked in a deep breath when Magnussen licked him again, his tongue wet with pooled saliva. He repeated the motion several times, drenching Sherlock’s vulva in his spit until he could feel it running down the crack of his arse. He began to rub the flat of his tongue hard against Sherlock’s clitoris, and Sherlock’s eyes widened as blood pooled in his groin, shame colouring his cheeks as he felt the first touch of unwanted arousal. 

 

“No.” He gasped. “Nonononono. Please, no.” Magnussen paid him no mind, and neither did his body. He clenched his hands into fists, squeezing his eyes shut, trying to force the sensation away. It should have been easy, like ignoring hunger, or pain- Mind over matter. He did it all the time. Yet the feeling refused to go away, only grew as Magnussen tongue-fucked him. He’d never had this done to him before, had no strategies to block it out. A shiver crept through his nerves, horror and arousal mingling, indistinguishable on a physiological level. The weak spark of arousal threading its way through his body was growing stronger, weaving around his veins, taking his body hostage as he squirmed, panting, disgusted with himself. A moan escaped his lips, and he gritted his teeth, breath coming hard as his arousal intensified suddenly, pleasure shuddering through his body even as his mind was in anguish, limbs jerking as he came hard. 

 

Magnussen lifted his head, smirking up at Sherlock in triumph. He’d been disappointed, initially, by Sherlock. He liked his prey with a little life in it, and Sherlock had been so still, and so silent- a far cry from the sweaty, panting mess that now lay before him. He moved so that he could could kiss Sherlock’s lips, letting him taste himself. He reached down, fingers sliding over Sherlock’s now wet hole. He slid one finger in easily, and then two with slightly more difficulty, the muscular walls of Sherlock’s vagina clinging to his fingers. He began to stretch Sherlock, coaxing him open with a scissoring motion until he could just fit three of his fingers.

 

Sherlock barely reacted as this was happening, mind still reeling from the shock of having orgasmed from Magnussen’s ministrations. It was a sickening loss of control. After that, it hardly seemed to matter that Magnussen was fucking him open with his fingers, that his hard cock was pressed up against Sherlock’s thigh, that he was climbing on top of him, pushing into him, thrusting in and out rhythmically as lips descended on him again, endless touching and kissing and thrusting, moans sounding out above him. Sherlock lay pliantly as Magnussen fucked him, as he held him tight, a hard cock throbbing inside of him as Magnussen orgasmed. 

 

He didn’t move to cover himself when Magnussen stood, gathering his clothes and dressing himself. Magnussen, fully put back together, stood by the bed, regarding Sherlock’s limp, defeated form. He smiled. 

 

“I’ll be in touch, Mr. Holmes.” He said, before letting himself out.

 

For John, Sherlock reminded himself. He was doing this for John. Lying there, in his bed that would be forever soiled by this memory, feeling Magnussen’s come leaking out out him, Sherlock felt like he almost hated John Watson, just a little.


	8. What's Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John pays Sherlock a visit. He knows Sherlock far too well, and he has his suspicions.

Sherlock begins sleeping on the sofa. He can’t stand being in his bed, or even his bedroom, for an extended period of time. Every time, he’s there, he feels the phantom touch of Magnussen’s damp hands. He moves to the sofa, sets up a protective nest all the pillows and the blankets in the house. Perhaps it isn’t healthy, perhaps he should be actively confronting his feelings on the matter. Sherlock isn’t sure, he always skipped out on those therapy sessions Mycroft kept sending him to after he got out of rehab. At any rate, therapy is for past trauma. Sherlock’s situation is very much ongoing.

 

He’s sleeping in his new makeshift bed when John pops by, two days after Magnussen. He’s got takeaway- Chinese. He frowns at Sherlock when he sees him. 

 

“There’s two beds in this flat. Why are you sleeping out here?” John said.

 

Sherlock sat up, giving a half-shrug. “Too quiet.” He muttered. He can’t let John know. 

 

John rolled his eyes, smiling fondly. “Well, glad to see you’re sleeping, at any rate. Here this one’s yours.” He set a bag on Sherlock’s lap. Sherlock hummed in acknowledgement, the heat from the food seeping through the blankets and warming his skin. John sat in his chair, opening the box with his own lunch. Sherlock turned on the telly, hoping that would distract John from noticing anything untoward.

 

Sherlock picked slowly at his food. He was hungry, but he kept getting distracted by watching John. He looked good. Sherlock hadn’t been lying, when he’d said that married life seemed to suit John. He’d put on weight, he looked well rested. Quite clearly, Mary was right. John deserved this happiness, no matter how painful it was for Sherlock. Sherlock drank in the sight of John, committing it to memory. He had hundreds of such mental images of John, accumulated over the years. Before John, he’d have thought such things frivolous clutter, things to be deleted. Now, he’d never delete any of them. Every single one was vitally important. 

 

John glanced at Sherlock as Sherlock watched him with an intent, almost desperate expression. Something was wrong, John could feel it. Still, he couldn’t just come out and ask ‘What’s wrong?’. That would never work.

 

“What’s got you thinking so hard?” John asked, his tone light and casual.

 

Sherlock blinked, his expression smoothing into something more neutral- his ‘lying face’, clear as day. “Shouldn’t you have stayed with your wife this morning? Morning sickness is terrible, and it’s not like we had an appointment. You didn’t have to leave her.”

 

John blinked, then smiled. “Go on, then, how’d you figure that out?” He always loved Sherlock’s deductions. Years of working with him hadn’t diminished the wonder of it in the slightest.

 

“You got a bit on you, you washed it off at the restaurant when you were picking up our food.” Sherlock nodded to John’s cuff, which was still damp. “The smell clings, of course it was vomit, and from today, that’s a fresh shirt. Not yours, you’re perfectly healthy, anyone can see that. Not a patient either, you didn’t go into work today, it’s too early for that, if you’d gone in you’d still be there, or you’d have mentioned that you won’t be able to stay long because it’s your lunch break. So- not you, not a patient. Mary’s pregnant, she’s the most likely culprit. You left her still sick- obvious, you rushed out of the house to come here, didn’t even notice the splash until it was too late to turn back, otherwise you’d have changed your shirt. You got the takeaway and came straight here. You would’ve noticed the stain quickly- if you’d gone to meet someone else, before coming here, your cuff would have dried by now. Quite simple.”

 

John shook his head slowly. “Not simple at all. Amazing, as always.”

 

Sherlock smiled at that, pleased at John’s praise, and also at the success of his ploy to distract John. Unfortunately, it didn’t last long.

 

“So how’s your wound doing? Any closer to catching who did it?”

 

Sherlock stilled almost imperceptibly, and John took notice. So it had something to do with that whole mess. Sherlock had said he didn’t remember who it was. He’d been lying. John had let it go then, but now he needed to know. 

 

“Sherlock, is somebody threatening you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John is clever and capable and I will fight anyone who thinks otherwise.


	9. Reach Out Your Hand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Magnussen has a new test of the strength of Sherlock's devotion.

The slight hint of alarm on Sherlock’s eyes told John all he needed to know, even as Sherlock denied it. “Of course not, John. How on earth did you jump to that conclusion? Don’t try to deduce, it’s just not working out for you.”

 

John pushed a few more times to find out more, but Sherlock wasn’t giving anything away. Reluctantly, John let it go for the moment, and allowed Sherlock to change the subject. 

 

When John finally left after a few hours, Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief. That had been close. John was sharper than most gave him credit for. He’d have to be more careful.

*****

A month passed. John kept dropping by, trying to trick information out of him by various, increasingly creative means. This managed only to upset and exhaust Sherlock. It was wearing, having to lie to John. Magnussen also dropped by a couple of times a week, in no predictable pattern. It kept Sherlock off balance and irritable. He was always terrified that John and Magnussen’s visits might coincide, and all of this would be for nothing. In early December, Magnussen devised a new form of torture for Sherlock.

 

Magnussen’s ‘session’ with Sherlock had ended the way it usually did. Once he was done, Magnussen got up, gathering his clothes. Sherlock stared resolutely at the ceiling, waiting for Magnussen to exit. Instead of leaving, though, he returned to the bed, sitting down next to Sherlock.

 

Sherlock turned his head, speaking to Magnussen’s knee. “What do you want?” He muttered.

 

“I have a present for you.” Magnussen said, drawing a vial of clear yellow fluid from his pocket. 

 

Sherlock frowned, trying to figure it out. Some sort of alkyl nitrite, possibly? Those were usually taken before sex, not after. It could be piss. Sherlock wouldn’t put it past him. He remembered Magnussen pissing in the fireplace, at the beginning of the case. That seemed so long ago now. 

 

Magnussen drew a syringe out of his pocket. “I see you’re confused.” He said as he methodically drew the fluid into the syringe. He glanced up at Sherlock. “It’s oestrogen.”

 

Sherlock’s blood ran cold. Out of all the things he might have considered- that was not one of them. The idea of having that inside him, reversing everything that he had worked for for years- he couldn’t imagine anything worse. He’d fought so hard to be Sherlock Holmes. Magnussen would undo all of that. 

 

Magnussen tapped the back of Sherlock’s hand. “Come on, then. For John.”

 

Slowly, painfully, hating himself, Sherlock stretched out his arm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alkyl nitrites are also known as poppers, they're drugs, though they're not considered to be particularly hardcore, I don't think. Certainly not on the level of heroin or cocaine. They're meant to be inhaled, and are supposed to relax you muscles, so some use it before anal sex to make it easier.


	10. What Comes Next

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is sad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! Sorry I took a while to update. I...have no excuse. I haven't been busy at all. It's straight up laziness and procrastination. Apologies. Uhm, trigger warning for gender dysphoria. Though I don't think it's super intense.

Sherlock didn’t leave the house for days. For the first time in years, he was terrified that he mightn’t pass, if someone saw him on the street. The rational part of him reminded him that hormones weren’t that fast acting, that a single dose of oestrogen couldn’t undo years of hormone therapy in less than a week, that in the end hormones weren’t even the most important part, compared to his mannerisms, the way he dressed and carried himself, things that oestrogen couldn’t take away from him. In fact, he’d been passing, for the most part, long before he even began hormone replacement therapy. 

All these rational arguments were swept away by a mounting terror. Magnussen would be back, surely, with more of that. Perhaps he’d even make Sherlock dress like a woman, even behave like one. Doubt crept into Sherlock’s mind. Would it be so bad, if he refused? Magnussen would tell John, but maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. He’d just know that his wife was a killer...he’d lose all trust in her, but he’d feel the need to overcome that, to save their marriage and to stay together with her for his child...Mary had John trapped, and if she knew he knew, perhaps John too would be in danger. Sherlock pushed the thought away. He couldn’t risk John like that. Even the chance of John being hurt was too great to risk. He’d come this far. He couldn’t give up now. 

Sherlock curled up in his chair, touching a hand to his chest. Was it a little sore? He thought he remembered this feeling, from when he was ten or eleven. He glanced down at himself, remembering the way his breasts used to be, swollen lumps sitting uncomfortably atop his chest. He’d hated them, how they were always getting in the way, how they’d broadcast to the world what he was. He remembered people looking at him in confusion, then glancing down to his chest, and their faces would clear, like they understood something, when really they knew absolutely nothing. 

He’d found an app, online. You spoke into the phone, and it’d tell you if your voice was masculine or feminine sounding. Sherlock hadn’t been able to stop himself from downloading it. Several times a day, he’d take it out, speaking into it, feeling a spark of relief each time the screen told him that he still sounded like a man. 

He was in the middle of that when John let himself into the flat. “Hey, Sherlock. What’s up? Mrs Hudson said you were-” 

He paused when he saw the app Sherlock was using. The screen read: ‘General Average: 150Hz. Minimum Average: 122Hz. Maximum Average: 196Hz. Your range is mostly: Male.’

John quickly surmised what was going on, his expression softening. He sat down next to Sherlock. “One of those days, huh?” He said sympathetically. “Anything I can do to help?” 

Sherlock breathed out a slow sigh of relief. Sherlock this was just an ordinary episode of dysphoria. He’d had those, every now and then. Quite rarely, and never like this. He slumped over, leaning against John’s side.

“No. Yes. I don’t know. Just- distract me.”


	11. Firing in the Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft and John have a discussion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been so long. Christmas...you know how it is.

Mycroft Holmes was worried. The delicate balance of power between himself and Charles Augustus Magnussen that held them in stalemate was a long standing one, but in recent months, Magnussen had gained enough power that he was threatening to tip that delicate balance. He had Lady Smallwood in his grasp, along with several other key players in the government. Now it seemed he’d managed to dig something up on Sherlock as well. This was worrying for a number of reasons. Firstly, Mycroft had no idea what Magnussen was holding over Sherlock’s head. For all his supposedly dark past, Sherlock was rather open about it. It could be hardly be drugs, then, or anything else that an ordinary person might be ashamed to share with the world. Mycroft’s next thought was John Watson, but John had a clean past, free from any particularly dark secrets. All in all, Mycroft was clueless, and he didn’t like not being in the know. The second worrying thing was that, clearly, Magnussen was making good use of Sherlock now that he had him. Mycroft had watch of the CCTV on Baker Street, and Magnussen had been seen going into 221B numerous times. In that same time period, Magnussen had managed to dig up dirt on several more of Mycroft’s allies. Mycroft wasn’t stupid enough to think this was a coincidence. With Sherlock now on Magnussen’s side, Mycroft knew he stood little chance against Magnussen. Still, he felt a reluctance to act in such a way that might risk exposing his little brother. After a moment of consideration, he made a decision. Getting out his phone, he dialed the number of the one man whom he hoped would be able to get through to Sherlock.

*****

John walked through the door of Mycroft’s office, features creased in worry. “What is it?” He asked, getting straight to the point.

Mycroft didn’t bother with any preamble either. He succinctly laid out the situation to John, explaining what he needed. John blinked, a worried frown tilting down the corners of his mouth. 

“So that’s all this has been about. He’s been a little off recently. I thought maybe it was just because of his injury and-” He paused. “There was something Sherlock said, a few weeks ago...I think he knows who the shooter is, and just doesn’t want to say. Do you think that has something to do with this?”

Mycroft steepled his fingers together in thought, for a moment looking very much like his younger brother. “It’s possible.” He said eventually. “I’ve been looking into it, with little success. Whoever shot him was highly skilled and very thorough. I haven’t been able to discover much.”

John huffed. “Well, I’ll do my best. I don’t know what good it will do, though. I have been trying, but he won’t tell me anything.”

Mycroft sighed. “I understand. Just try. If you can’t get him to talk, I doubt anyone else could.”

Just then, Mycroft’s assistant walked into the room. She held out a thick envelope for Mycroft to take. “This just came for you, sir.” She said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As much as I love omniscient and omnipotent Mycroft, I love a Mycroft who is fallible and limited just as much.


	12. Just a Magic Trick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Magnussen's games are not usually as deadly as Moriarty's were, but they're both skilled at wielding suffering for Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is set a few days before the last. I don't normally jump around much with my chronology, but all will be explained in future chapters.

A few days before, Sherlock found himself again in bed, for the same reason as last time, the only reason he was ever in his bed nowadays. He’d had a over a week’s respite, after Magnussen’s last visit, though he’d spent that week in misery over Magnussen’s newest game with the oestrogen. Magnussen got off him, and Sherlock sat up, staring blankly at his come-streaked thighs. As usual, he ignored the man moving around the bedroom, getting himself dressed. 

A pair of polished black dress shoes appeared in his field of vision. “I’m not yet done with you today, Mr. Holmes.” Magnussen’s voice sounded from above him. 

Sherlock closed his eyes. Of course. He turned his arm over, exposing his pale wrist and forearm. There was a pause, and then Magnussen began to laugh. Sherlock glanced up, glaring at him through slitted eyes.

“You really have been compromised, Mr. Holmes. Were you thinking about this?” He drew the vial of yellow liquid out of his jacket pocket. Sherlock glanced away, not wanting to look at it. “Oh, Mr. Holmes.” A cool hand cupped Sherlock’s cheek, guiding him to look at Magnussen. “I think I’ve mentioned before that I I find you very beautiful. Your body- it is lovely. I have no desire to change it.”

Sherlock lowered his eyes. Those words- what he’d have given to hear it from someone, anyone else- someone whom he liked, someone who actually loved him. _John_ , a tiny voice in the back of his brain whispered to him. Those words -welcome from anyone else- soured and curdled in Magnussen’s mouth. It was another trap, another trick, something else that was ruined for Sherlock forever. 

Magnussen’s fingers carded slowly through Sherlock’s wild, sweat-damp hair. “I thought you would have figured it out before today. He pressed the vial into Sherlock’s hands. “It’s only saline water. You can test it, if you like. I know how you prefer to gather your own evidence.”

Sherlock gripped the tiny bottle tightly, emotions warring within him. Relief was one, though tempered with wariness; anger, too- at himself, for not having seen through the trick; at Magnussen, for toying with him like that, but that was futile- he had too many reasons to be angry with Magnussen already. 

“I only wanted to see, how far you would go.” Magnussen was saying. “That was the furthest I could think to go. And yet you accepted, did you not, Mr. Holmes? With nary a whimper. You do love him so.”

Sherlock closed his eyes, not wanting to listen to Magnussen’s taunts, the reminder of his own stupidity. His eyes shot open as Magnussen raised his voice, calling out his next words.

“Mr. Watson, you can come in now.”


	13. Captured

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Magnussen moves the game forward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short one today, sorry. Tomorrow, we return to John and Mycroft.

Sherlock flinched, scrambling for the covers as the door creaked open. His eyes were screwed shut, not wanting to see John looking at his disheveled nakedness. It took him embarrassingly long to register a few things- firstly, Magnussen had said _Mr._ , not _Dr._ Watson. Secondly, Magnussen gained nothing from letting John know- he would lose his hold over Sherlock for nothing more than the opportunity to watch him suffer. Thirdly, and oddly enough, the fact that really pulled him out of his rising panic- those weren’t John’s footsteps. 

Sherlock opened his eyes, relaxing fractionally as he took in the sight of the young man standing awkwardly in the doorway, before tensing again as he noticed all the paraphernalia he was carrying, deducing immediately what was about to happen. 

Magnussen chuckled as he watched Sherlock’s reaction. “Andrew, this is Sherlock. Sherlock, Andrew. Quite an amusing coincidence about the name, is it not?” He gestured for Andrew to begin setting up. “As you can see, Mr. Holmes, I’ve arranged a little photoshoot for you. Something for me to keep as a little...memento.”

Sherlock shuddered. The net was drawing close, now. No backing out possible, not after this. He’d be well and truly caught. Then again, he already was. Magnussen had ascertained that himself just last week. 

Magnussen observed Sherlock’s brief struggle with himself, smiling as his features settled into a defeated expression. “Good boy.” He praised. He looked at the photographer standing at the side. “He’s all yours, Mr. Watson.”

Watson stepped forwards, shooting Sherlock an apologetic look as he spoke. “Mr Holmes. If you could just lie down- and put your arms above your head- yeah, just like that. Cross your legs at the ankles? Just a little bit more, like this-” 

He grasped Sherlock’s leg, bending his leg a little more. Sherlock followed each instruction, allowing himself to be posed and positioned. He sank into his head, picturing himself as a lifeless doll, blocking out useless thoughts of modesty or outrage. 

“Hold that pose.” He was instructed, as the photographer went over to his equipment, adjusting the lighting and taking a few photos before coming back to pose him in another position. Sherlock kept his mind blank through the whole ordeal, mindlessly following along as he was instructed. When finally they packed up and left, he remained motionless and unresponsive, staring blankly into the dead space in front of him. It was hours before he moved, getting up and going into the bathroom to take a long shower.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All of you twigged to my trick pretty quick, you smart cookies. It's kind of gratifying, that you guys all seemed to figure it out. Means that I'm writing both Magnussen and John correctly, so it's immediately obvious that the immediate idea the 'Watson' was supposed to plant wasn't quite right. That was the intention, like a little shock, and then that moment of dawning realisation that's exactly what happens to Sherlock.


	14. This Ends Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft opens the envelope.

Mycroft took the brown paper envelope from his assistant, noting the discreet ‘CAM’ printed on the bottom right corner. He hesitated, glancing at John, then began to open it. He’d enlisted the man’s help, after all. Might as well keep him involved. Mycroft needed all the allies he could get, and John Watson quite possibly the only person, at this point, whom Mycroft knew he could trust implicitly. 

John watched as Mycroft opened the envelope and drew out the contents halfway, his furrowed brow smoothening out in an expression of shock. He slid the sheaf of paper back in, setting it down on the table between them with shaking hands. 

“It seems I have been very much mistaken.” Mycroft said quietly. 

John cocked his head, a worried frown on his face. “About what?”

Mycroft nodded at the envelope. “You may look. These were sent to me by the man we were just discussing. Charles Augustus Magnussen.”

Cautiously, John took the envelope. Inside were approximately twenty sheets of glossy photo paper. Each one was a different, full-colour, A4-sized photograph of a naked Sherlock- Sherlock on his back, back arched, knees in the air and legs crossed, looking over his shoulder into the camera; Sherlock on his knees, sitting back on his ankles, knees spread wide, arms crossed behind his head as he stretched up, elongating his torso, head tilted back to bare his neck; Sherlock on his knees and elbows, arse thrust up into the air, legs spread; Sherlock on his back looking up into the camera, one arm draped across his chest, the other hand covering his crotch.

In spite of the attraction he knew he harboured towards Sherlock, John felt not even a flicker of lust as he looked at the photographs. His stomach was churning with horror, thinking of what his friend had been going through, silently suffering for months. He looked up at Mycroft.

“It’s not just photographs, was it. What Magnussen did to him.” He said flatly.

Mycroft shook his head miserably. He didn’t need to spell it out loud for John to hear. The signs were all there, from the slight sheen of dried come on Sherlock’s inner thighs to the utterly dead look in his eyes. 

John set the photographs back on the table, face down. His eyes were blazing with anger. “Well, bollocks to your plan, Mycroft. This is beyond coaxing Sherlock into talking. This ends now. I won’t let it go on a moment longer.”

Mycroft met John’s eyes, back straightening. “No.” He agreed, voice filled with a quiet, ice-cold fury. “We won’t. I have a plan.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I know it seems like there's a plot hole. I'll explain next chapter.


	15. Checkmate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The game is over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of an interlude today, tying up loose threads and providing a little background. Sorry it's late, my internet was being funky all of last night, it only just started working again.

Most of the world knew Mycroft Holmes as a cold man. He’d perfected his emotionless mask as a child, and wore it everywhere he went. In his work, he was ruthless in his decisions, with little regard for personal connection. It made him, ironically, a person who could be trusted. Conflict of interest was not an issue. He was a man who could make the sacrifices that needed to be made. Like, any man, though, he had his secrets; big ones, even; secrets big enough to be used against a man who seemed as unshakable as the ground itself. Earthquakes were, after all, not impossible. Naturally, secrets like that were bound to fall into the wrong hands; the hands of one Charles Augustus Magnussen, for example. 

So began a stalemate that spanned years. Mycroft unable to to act against the blackmailer systematically weaving his net around the British government (of which Mycroft really was only a small part, no matter Sherlock’s hyperbole), yet not giving him an inch more. There were many things that Magnussen wanted from Mycroft, and while the Mycroft did not act against him, he was also not ready to betray his country, not even to save himself and his secrets. If Magnussen wanted Mycroft Holmes, he needed something that he valued more than his secrets, more than his country. He needed Sherlock Holmes. 

Luckily for Magnussen, Sherlock was no Ice Man. He was not cold, or ruthless. He was a man with deep insecurities, a man desperately in love. He was, to put it simply, easy prey. Magnussen dug around in Sherlock’s connections. He discovered Mary Watson’s deliciously dirty past, and almost got shot in his own office. A stand off, about to end very messily for him indeed, took a sudden turn for the better. Sherlock Holmes took a bullet to the chest, and Mary Watson turned from unexpectedly feisty prey to unwitting ally. 

It took a few months for Magnussen to ascertain that he had a good, proper hold over Sherlock Holmes. In all honesty, he could have managed that rather quicker, but in truth, his newest toy was just too delightful. The game, however, had to be moved on. The stalemate was over. Magnussen moved his piece, in the form of twenty-one highly suggestive photographs winging their way to Mycroft Holmes’ office. Checkmate, he thought. He was right, but he’d forgotten- once you win the game, the game is over, and once the game is over, all bets are off.


	16. Appledore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Magnussen whisks Sherlock away to the countryside.

After the ‘photoshoot’ Sherlock scoured the web, the newspapers, dreading the moment when the photographs of him would inevitably surface. That was the only reason he could think of for their existence- so that Magnussen could leak them, humiliating him publicly, outing him as a transgender man, forcing him to scramble to explain their existence without revealing his connection to Magnussen; just another mind game. A couple of days passed. Sherlock had seen everything that existed on the internet that even passingly mentioned his name. In all photographs of him, he was fully clothed. Sherlock felt no relief. He went back to the Google home search page, refreshing the results for his name. When that turned up nothing, he tried googling his birth name. Then he tried ‘Sherlock Holmes’ again. He was interrupted from this obsessive cycle on the third day, when he got a text. 

_Come downstairs and get in the car. CAM_

Even after everything, Sherlock didn’t even consider not going. He was too deeply entrenched now. He did decide to leave his coat at home; better not to risk anything that might happen to it. 

Magnussen was waiting for him in the car. When Sherlock got in, he leaned over, cupping Sherlock’s chin to bring him closer and kissed him on the lips. “Good morning, Mr. Holmes.”

Sherlock didn’t reply. He stared out the window as the car began to move, heading west. “We’re going to Appledore.” He murmured as they turned onto the A40. 

Magnussen smiled. “Very clever, Mr. Holmes. Yes, we are. After all, I have been to your home many times already. It is only fair that I return the favour.”

Sherlock huffed softly, not looking at Magnussen, taking little notice of his words. They both knew there was more going on. Sherlock tried to figure out what was going on, but it was like swimming through wet concrete. He’d trained himself, over the months, not to think or feel anything in Magnussen’s presence. Firmly blocked off from his own mind, he found himself drifting, staring blankly out the window as the countryside zipped past.

*****

Appledore was as massive and as showy as it appeared in photographs. It gave Sherlock a cold feeling, this huge, beautiful piece of modern architecture tucked away in the countryside. On the drive up, he’d watched as the fields and woodlands gave way to flat, perfectly manicured grass, the wild countryside tamed down into nothingness. He couldn’t help but make the link to his own situation. Apparently, his mind when in distress tended to seek refuge in trite metaphors.

The car stopped in front of the huge glass-covered entrance. They both got out, Sherlock following Magnussen through the house into a surprisingly cosy looking bedroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's the beginning of the end! I've been planning this for what seems like ages...almost two months! Can't believe I made it all this way. In terms of plot I think this is the most challenging fic I've ever written. Trying to get into the heads of Sherlock, Magnussen, Mycroft, all these brilliant and complicated people, trying not only to figure out what they would do, but how to engineer the situation to make them do what I want them to do while staying in character. Whew, what a ride. I was still hammering out the details of things last night.


	17. Reality Is Always Less

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has a shower.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, again, about my increasingly terrible update schedule. I dunno whose idea it was to put presentation week directly after the Chinese New Year festival, but it was definitely someone evil. Or dumb. Also I've been having issues with spotty wifi. It conks out ever half hour and i have to just stop everything and wait the ten to fifteen minutes it takes for it to spontaneously return so that I can continue writing. Alas, the spirit is willing but the internet is weak.

Knowing the drill by now, Sherlock began to walk towards the bed on autopilot, unbuttoning his shirt as he went. He preferred to take his own clothes off. It was worse to let Magnussen do it. Magnussen chuckled, catching Sherlock by the elbow.

“So eager.” he murmured, leaning down to press his lips against Sherlock’s. “Not this time, my dear. I’m afraid we have things to do.” He unbuttoned Sherlock’s shirt the rest of the way, groping Sherlock briefly through his trousers as he undid his fly. “We’ve got guests coming. You’ll have a shower.” He ran his free hand through Sherlock’s greasy, unwashed curls. “Get you presentable. Don’t want you embarrassing me, hmm? I’ve got something nice picked out for you to wear once you’re done.”

Whatever game Magnussen had planned now, Sherlock was quite sure it wasn’t Magnussen who was about to be embarrassed. He stepped out of his trousers and pants, heading towards the ensuite bathroom. 

In spite of his trepidation of what was about to come and his discomfort with being in Magnussen’s home, Sherlock found it surprisingly good to finally shower. The warm, rushing water was soothing, and the unopened bottles of soap, shampoo, and conditioner were refreshingly scented. If he concentrated, he could almost pretend he was in a high end hotel, maybe for a case, funded by Mycroft of course, since they’d be doing it as a favour for him. They’d have just finished up, solved the murder, with the rest of day until the next morning to just relax. John would be outside, waiting for him to finish up in the shower so he could have his turn. When he came out John would snark at him for using up all the warm water, Sherlock would roll his eyes and tell him that, obviously, this wasn’t Baker Street with its tiny hot water heater, the pipes here were heated so he could take a shower for two hours if he wanted and they wouldn’t run out. John would love that, he liked his long, hot baths- Sherlock always made sure to bathe or shower at odd times so that John would have the full tank for evening bath. Sherlock smiled slightly to himself, thinking of the way John’s eyes would light up at the thought of endless hot water, how he'd look once he was done, wrapped up in a terry bathrobe, hair sticking up in damp tufts, fingertips deeply pruned from his long soak.

He was ripped out of the fantasy when the bathroom door opened and Magnussen walked in. He was naked, his red, hard cock bobbing in the air as he got into the shower with Sherlock. Large hands wrapped around Sherlock’s waist as he was tugged backwards, hot flesh digging into the cleft of his arse. 

“You said-” Sherlock began, startled.

Magnussen rubbed his whiskered jaw across the back of Sherlock’s neck. “I did.” He agreed. “But you were taking so long, I thought I might join in on the fun.”

Sherlock shuddered and sighed and fell silent, knowing there was no talking his way out of this. Magnussen had probably planned this, did it on purpose just to keep Sherlock off balance. It frustrated Sherlock to no end that it actually worked. Emotional leverage aside, Sherlock was still a genius, he should be able to predict stupidly simple power plays like this. Still Magnussen seemed to outwit him at every turn. Sherlock sagged miserably, bracing himself against the shower wall.


	18. Shotgun Wedding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock doesn't like his new outfit.

Sherlock stared down at his lap, picking morosely at the lace hem of the dress that Magnussen had gotten him to wear. It had been over a decade since he’d last worn a dress. That had been for a case, where he’d had to infiltrate a feminist book club, of all things, and it had been an unmitigated disaster. It should have been fine, after all he’d lived as a female for more than half his life at that point. However, once out in public in a dress and without his binder for the first time in years, surrounded by overly friendly women who kept saying ‘his’ name, the wrong name, he’d panicked. He’d locked himself in the (wrong) bathroom for forty-five minutes, then, once he’d gotten it together, left early. He’d promised himself then that he’d never wear a dress ever again. No case was worth it.

Yet there he was, in a dress; a wedding dress, no less, and seated in the lap of the most vile man he’d ever met, because it was for John, and John was worth more than every case Sherlock had ever worked combined. 

Magnussen had one arm wrapped around Sherlock’s waist, the other hand gripping his knee. Sherlock was seated crosswise on his lap, so that Magnussen could see past him at their ‘visitors’, once they arrived. He hadn’t told Sherlock who they were. It had something, surely, to do with the dress. Magnussen hadn’t told him anything about that, either, just instructed him to put it on. Sherlock wasn’t sure whether or not to be comforted by the fat that it clearly hadn’t been made for him- it cinched his waist too tightly and sagged loosely at the breast, and the hem rose awkwardly above the ankles. 

There was little he could deduce from the dress. It had been worn before, by someone too short for it- there was a tear in the back from having caught in the heel of the wearer. That made three people who had worn this dress, including himself and whoever it had been made for. From the condition of the dress, Sherlock imagined that this must all have been in the last five to ten years. It was hard to accurately tell; its nearly pristine condition (aside from the tear) indicated it had been rarely used. 

Sherlock’s current theory was that he was being married off to someone as part of some sick deal. It made sense- the photographs, evidence of the ‘goods’. Magnussen’s tests of how far he would go, preparing him for this moment, when he would sign away his freedom to someone he’d most likely never met. His stomach roiled at the thought. He’d be like a mail-order bride, forced to wait on a man who would probably be as horrible as Magnussen, raped as often as the man could get it up. He’d be taken away from London, maybe even away from England, trapped in some big country house where he would rot into madness while everyone searched for him. 

“Welcome to Appledore, gentlemen.” Magnussen’s voice cut through Sherlock’s spiralling thoughts.

Bracing himself for his first look at the man to whom he would be bound for the rest of his life, Sherlock glanced up. A quiet gasp escaped him as he met the wide blue eyes of Doctor John Watson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's John!!! The moment you have all been waiting for...


	19. Last Stand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The confrontation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is! The long-awaited scene (or the beginning of it, anyway). Can you tell I don't generally write action? Haha hope it's not too disappointing.

“Welcome to Appledore, gentlemen.” Magnussen murmured as the two men strode through his front door. His grip tightened on Sherlock. With a single glance, Magnussen could tell that his plan had gone awry. Mycroft Holmes was meant to arrive alone, unarmed, ready to bargain anything for the safety of his precious little brother. Instead, accompanying him was John Watson, and they both looked ready for murder.

Magnussen’s mind raced, his mental plan of the encounter shifting, reshaping. The plan had been easy- he had Sherlock Holmes eating out of his hand, and thus he had Mycroft Holmes. He’d planned to taunt and tease, make a little pantomime of ‘giving Sherlock back’ to his brother, had even dressed Sherlock up to add a little extra drama and humiliation to the whole affair. This was something different. There was no winning here; the plan was to survive. He was glad he had Sherlock in his lap. The intention had merely been to show off his complete ownership over the man, how Sherlock would do anything he wanted, giving to Magnussen the greatest bargaining chip he could possibly use against Mycroft Holmes. Now, his role was something different- hostage and human shield, all in one. 

Neither John nor Mycroft had any interest in making polite small talk. The second they can in the doors, they had their guns trained on Magnussen. Sherlock began to struggle, knowing he needed to get away from Magnussen so that one of them could finally shoot him. Magnussen held fast to him, his grip ironclad even as Sherlock flailed and twisted. Sherlock hadn’t eaten in four days, in fact he had barely eaten or slept in the last month. He tired quickly, reluctantly stilling in Magnussen’s hold, breath coming in ragged pants. 

There was a moment of silence, as the stand-off seemed to stretch into infinity. Then Magnussen began to speak.

“While we’re waiting for something to happen, maybe you would like to know how we all came to be here together. I’m sure you think it’s all about Sherlock here. In truth it has almost nothing to do with him. We’re here because of you, Doctor Watson.”

John’s eyes narrowed, hands never wavering. “What’s it got to do with me?”

Sherlock resumed his frantic kicking, terror filling him as he realised where this was going. Magnussen only smiled, holding Sherlock tighter.

“You’re very similar to your wife, Doctor Watson.” Magnussen murmured. “You know, she tried to shoot me too. That was, oh, three months ago? You may remember, as she ended up shooting our dear Sherlock here, instead.”

‘You’re lying.” John said flatly. He had no desire to entertain this man’s games.

“How do you think I got Sherlock to comply with me?” Magnussen laughed softly. “He knew if you found out it would destroy your happy little family. And he would do anything to stop that from happening. I really do mean _anything_.”

John scowled. “That doesn’t make any sense.” He glanced at Mycroft, checking his reaction. That was all the opportunity Magnussen needed. In a single swift movement, he shoved Sherlock onto the floor and drew a gun from behind his chair, firing it straight at John.


	20. Look After Him

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft makes a decision.

Mycroft was unsurprised to be largely ignored during the exchange between John and Magnussen. Everyone in the room was well aware that between him and John, John was the greater threat. For all his genius, Mycroft spent most of his time behind a desk, while John had been a soldier, and spent his free time chasing criminals through the streets of London. Still, even as he did nothing, he wasn’t completely useless. While John had been distracted, Mycroft had a split second of warning as Magnussen reached for his gun. Mycroft thought, very, very quickly.

He couldn’t shout to warn John. John was quite clearly in no mood to do sensible things like ducking. If he said ‘gun’ John would turn and fire, and then he would get shot. Mycroft could fire, but even if he managed to hit Magnussen, John would still get hit. Nearly every scenario that ran through his mind at lightning speed ended in John shot and possibly killed. Mycroft knew that no matter what, he could not allow this to happen. Sherlock had a huge amount of trauma to get through. He would not survive having John Watson’s death on top of that. Between their fraught relationship and Mycroft’s own cold nature, there would be little that Mycroft could do to help him to overcome that. There was only one solution that held a chance at a happy ending for Sherlock.

Thinking fast was Mycroft’s specialty; moving fast was not. It was fortunate that Mycroft did not have far to move. Split second decision made, Mycroft leapt without hesitation, putting himself between John Watson and the oncoming bullet. 

John, looking at Mycroft move, saw him move a brief moment before he heard the gun fire. He whipped his head back to Magnussen, and seeing a clear shot, immediately fired his gun directly into Magnussen’s brain. 

There was a moment of silence as Sherlock got to his feet. “Well, I’m glad no blood got on this dress.”

That had not been the first words that John would have expected to come from Sherlock’s mouth. “What? Sherlock, your brother just-”

“I know.” Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut, blocking it out. He couldn’t think about that now. He needed to get John to safety. “I’m going to change. _Don’t_ call emergency services, they’re both already dead. And for God’s sake, don’t step in the blood, either.”

Sherlock turned and went back to the room where he’d left his clothes, closing the door behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know Sherlock seems cold. Don't worry, this isn't some DFP shit. He's just in shock.


	21. A Long Journey Ahead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock takes control of the situation.

John crouched down carefully, giving Mycroft a quick examination. Sherlock was right- he was gone, there wasn’t any point in calling anyone. He backed away, careful not to touch anything. His head was spinning. Everything had happened so fast, he’d barely had time to register it. He still didn’t understand. Why had Mycroft done that? He’d sacrificed himself, for John. They hadn’t even been all that close. None of it made sense.

Sherlock returned a few moments later, dressed now in his usual clothing. He gave John and the two bodies on the floor a brief once-over, then nodded sharply in approval. It wouldn’t be too hard to doctor the crime scene a little. He strode over to John, holding out a hand.

“Gun.” He said sharply.

Unthinkingly, John handed the gun over. He frowned as Sherlock wiped it off and carefully removed the gun in Mycroft’s hand, replacing it with John’s gun.

“What are you doing?” John asked.

Sherlock gave him a long-suffering look. “At some point, someone is going to stumble across all this.” He waved a hand at the grisly tableau before them. Leaving it as it is, they’ll figure out that Mycroft never fired his gun. They’ll want to know who killed Magnussen. That’s you, by the way. He’s a well known, wealthy businessman. This will be a high-profile case. They won’t stop until they’ve found you and locked you away for good. I, for one, would like to avoid that outcome. Hence this.” He brandished the gun he’d taken from Mycroft. Now it’s a much simpler case. Two men in a room, both dead, wearing bullet holes that match the gun the other is holding. An open and shut case. The police love those, they’ll never bother to think any further, as long as we both get out of here undetected. Which I’d like to do now, so if we could get going…”

John blinked. “You’re going to pin it on Mycroft?”

“Yes.” Sherlock glanced at Mycroft, then quickly looked away. “He won’t mind, after all he’s-” Sherlock stopped, and swallowed. “He won’t mind.” 

John looked from Sherlock to Mycroft, then back at Sherlock. He nodded. “Okay.” He murmured. “Okay. So, how are we getting home?”

Sherlock whipped out his phone as he began to walk, typing quickly. “Can’t take either of the cars we came in, that would be too obvious. There’s a small town an hour east of here. We can rent a car from there.”

John followed after him. “Sherlock, are you all right? You’ve just-”

Sherlock stopped abruptly, turning to scowl at him. “Oh, can’t it wait? What now?”

John had no idea how to answer that. What came next? There were a billion things they needed to address. John didn’t even know where to begin, and Sherlock seemed completely unwilling to talk about it. He sighed.

“You _know_ what. But alright, yes, it can wait.” 

“Good. Come on.” Sherlock turned sharply and continued walking. 

John followed right behind him. They had a long journey ahead of them, by that John didn’t mean the walk. Either way, John planned to be there for his friend, every step of the way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cheesy ending, I know. Sorry. And yes! This fic is finished! But not to worry, that's just because I felt that the story I had planned needed to be divided into two parts. So as you can see, this has been made into a series, and the next fic will pick up right where we left off. I'll post it soon, so please do subscribe. Thanks to everyone who's stuck with me all his way! You've really been lovely and encouraging! Hope to continue to see you around.


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